


John Cross-But-Patient Watson

by walkamongstthestars



Series: When Sherlock Needs To Remember [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, i guess, this actually is just really bad, wow why did I think this was a good idea, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkamongstthestars/pseuds/walkamongstthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John would forgive him. He would be cross, but he would patiently wait for Sherlock to explain. Whilst Sherlock no doubt ices the black eye John would affectionally provide him with. Then John would kiss the black eye away…<br/>…Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Cross-But-Patient Watson

**Author's Note:**

> So basically, this is really not good at all and I wrote this at like 4 in the morning last night, because people were requesting the continuation and I suck a lot and never did it. The plot is actually laughable because I was just like "umm let's faff around here about some crime" because I am legitimately the worst with that sort of storyline. So I apologize.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked, and I pulled some stuff outta my arse about gangs and honestly, if any of this seems offensive just you know, let me know. Any gross mistakes are my own, I know nothing about the area, I just google maps'd stuff. Thanks.
> 
> ALSO: I know I'm mean to Mycroft here, but just bear with me, I don't hate Mycroft in any way, shape, or form. This loosely exists post-RF, but I'm leaving it open to interpretation. But I don't think I could paint their relationship as outwardly loving if I had a gun to my head.

"If you keep doing this, your ever-loving John is going to think you're attempting to avoid him," Mycroft said over the rim of his tumbler, before taking a quick sip of the honey-gold liquid inside and replacing the glass on the small table next to the armchair, preparing himself for an onslaught of absolute petulant Sherlock.

"Shut up, Mycroft. I'd rather have John cross with me than dead. Did you get the itinerary?" Sherlock snapped at Mycroft, his cheek resting in his hand, fingers twitching across his lower lip. Mycroft sighed and raised his eyebrows, opening his briefcase to withdraw a thin manila folder. 

"Yes, just as you requested. Why on earth you need to go on such a convoluted route is beyond me," he drawled, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes and bite back the urge to bring up the diet again. Even he didn't have time for this petty rivalry at the moment. "You'll be taken to the station at five in the morning, dropped off three blocks away. This particular station is crowded enough for you to secrete yourself amongst other travelers until you're in the car. You'll reach Slough at six, take a cab to the airport, and depart at nine. You'll arrive in the quiet country of Scotland in the afternoon and take yet another cab to the nearby station, arriving at some hole-in-the-wall bedsit, I'm sure. This would all be more comforting if I understood what was happening, though, Sherlock."

Sherlock took the folder from Mycroft and didn't reply, glancing over it quickly. "All you need to know is that I am less than pleased to be owing you for this. No point of worry, I assure you. I trust you'll send John the message I dictated?"

Mycroft grimaced slightly, the tips of his first and second finger gliding over the rim of his glass. "I must confess, I wish it was not required of me. John can be quite…" Mycroft trailed off, seemingly an attempt at treading cautiously.

"Immutable in his concern and _gentle_ ways of extracting information?" Sherlock smiled, falsely. Mycroft narrowed his eyes and groused.  

"Heaven forbid the two of you marry; I shall never recover from the duty of brother-in-law," Mycroft weakly jabbed. Sherlock seemed to still minutely at this, but recovered and sneered back. 

"I'm sure he'd be equally satisfied at the notion of it," he said, more quietly, distracted by the curious fray at the edge of the folder. Less curious in the reality of its existence than in that it provided Sherlock a way to shift himself farther from Mycroft's watchful eye. 

"Well, I suppose-" 

"I'll be in my room," Sherlock cut Mycroft off, standing and turning towards the door, hand on the ornate golden curve of the handle. "I-"

"Yes. Goodnight." Mycroft busied himself with the latch on his briefcase, nodding. He needed nothing more; he deserved nothing more, at that moment. Sherlock nevertheless felt an uncomfortable coil in his chest. The mere circumstance of him reaching out to Mycroft in this instance was enough show of gratitude for them, though it would not have been for any other. John's sentimentality had begun to rub off more on Sherlock, but he still easily bit back the urge to utter any kindness. John would eventually thank Mycroft for helping to keep them out of harm's way -- after thoroughly glaring them both down, possibly punching Sherlock - no, definitely punching him- and proceeding to make Mycroft feel like a three-year-old being scolded by his mother for breaking her favorite vase. It was not, as yet, Sherlock's duty to be unutterably forgiving or gracious. Mycroft didn't expect it, and John had gained an incredible understanding of their relationship after the numerous times Mycroft had put too much weight on the eggshells he walked on around them. 

 

\-----------

 

After Sherlock had been moved from the comfortably - for a Holmes - stately mansion, to the very unwelcoming grey walled room in Scotland, he set up his laptop for the surveillance feeds. He could track the gang's movement between cities, knowing they were stupid enough to believe he was not alone and trace his steps, following under the notion that he had their merchandise. Of course, the true opposing force to them would meet halfway, being stationed in the unassuming city of Portree. Even Sherlock had to hand it to them for scaring the locals into submission and respect, conveniently ignoring the weekly dubious boats docked there. Of course, they knew how to get the best of the gang in favour of claiming Sherlock's death notice, and once they had sent their enemies fleeing with tails tucked under, Sherlock would make his grand entrance, sans army doctor. The thought disturbed him enough to distract him from his work for a moment. It was more that he was a creature of habit, despite his unpredictability. Having John there had become a state of being. But, Sherlock had picked up the scent of the all-too-confident mob of exaggerated robbers, and thus they wanted revenge. The Met, had, unsurprisingly, proven useless. Which, clearly, had nothing to do with Sherlock refusing protection and insisting they simply walk into the gang's establishment and arrest them. Even Sherlock Holmes gets desperate, once in a while, and since the gang was (rather ambitiously) dealing in arms, Sherlock thought it best to wait until they were specifically armless to catch them in the act of something. The added triumph of hopefully bringing down the Portree-based gang was just the cherry on the top.

John would forgive him. John would understand that the gang knew enough to believe they never went anywhere without each other. And they were moronic enough not to anticipate Sherlock planning with that in mind. 

He would be cross, but he would patiently wait for Sherlock to explain. Whilst Sherlock no doubt ices the black eye John would affectionally provide him with. Then John would kiss the black eye away…

…Right?

Sherlock clenched his jaw and grimaced at the fact that he needed to do it. Even now.

Without giving himself time to chide himself, he fished around in his bag for the flash drive. When his computer screen came to life and provided him with the option of two files, he chose the second.

Pressing play, he swallowed thickly.

"Another experiment, you say? You sure you're not just hiding the fact that you're being overly sentiment- ow!" John yelped as Sherlock tossed a small paperback book at him, managing to clip the side of his head. "Alright, alright, touchy. I know, I know, I was rude today, I deserve it, so don't give me that childish- what?"

" _John_."

"Yes, right, what's this one about, then?"

"If I ever have to leave you for longer than a day for a case, disappear to protect you, and don't tell you, you'll still love me? You'll forgive me." Sherlock had said it with such confidence, as though the thought of John being angry with him for longer than the amount of time it takes to breathe between thoughts seemed absurd. Though, Sherlock conveniently had dismissed, John was very much capable of being angry with Sherlock for longer than the time it takes to breathe twice between thoughts. 

John considered Sherlock sternly, his light-hearted expression from earlier turning stony.

"As long as you don't get your stupid arse killed, I will forgive you. If you get killed, I'll just sell my soul to bring you back from the dead to kill you with my own bare hands," John said. "Why are you asking?"

Sherlock had answered, impatiently, that it was an experiment, begging off the need to repeat himself again. John had narrowed his eyes and shoved him slightly, then looked down at his clasped hands. 

"I will always love you, Sherlock. Always. And I trust you, with every fibre of my being. But that doesn't give you the right to be an utter idiot and leave me alone with my thoughts. Okay? I will not be made to sit here like a withering maid because you have some misguided notion that protecting me involves me not knowing what's going on. Clear?"

Sherlock had nodded.

Knowing he had nodded, Sherlock winced as he watched John's face, reading the same knowledge John had that Sherlock had now - Sherlock made exceptions when he thought his plans were foolproof and easy enough.

"This had better not be your way of indirectly telling me you're about to faff off somewhere, because if that's so we can skip this lovely dinner I have planned and go straight to the next inevitable argument we will be having," John said, side-eyeing Sherlock. Sherlock had huffed and dismissed the notion with a flap of his hand. "Oh, I know that look, you git."

"What look?" Sherlock asked, his look now simply confused.

"That look that says you're liable to do something stupid soon."

Sherlock had looked in the mirror and frowned. "This is my face."

"Exactly."

A pillow was thrown this time and John had started giggling, which Sherlock thought to be a good sign. After the camera had been carelessly pointed in a random direction of the sitting room (while they had shoved at each other and then sloppily kissed away imaginary bruises), John had smiled at the camera and then shook his head, huffing happily. 

"Look, Sherlock, I'm just saying. I'd be sorely heartbroken if I didn't have my over-large child of a boyfriend to take care of everyday, so you had better preserve us both so I can continue to properly chide you."

"A profession at which you exceed all standards, by far," Sherlock had rolled his eyes. 

"Oi, you toff, you know what I mean. We're a team and you better have a damn good reason to leave me out of any negotiations we may have in the future. And even then you'll be buying the milk and hoovering your messes for a month, just as a _start_ ," John teased. Sherlock was quiet but he was smiling slightly behind the camera. A few minutes had passed as John had fidgeted with his watch. "You know I'm only human. I can get hurt. And I know you can get hurt, both emotionally and physically. We're better together, and quite frankly I won't ever feel wholly safe without you around- no, I know you don't understand that bit, but it's not about a gun or- it's-it's about having my own sanity tied in to your level of wellbeing, yeah? So, just, don't be a dick and leave me on my own when you know I will just throw shit at you when you return until we have angry make-up sex. Ohh, you think angry make-up sex sounds good, but you have not yet experienced full Captain Watson angry se-" but John had been cut off as Sherlock had smiled devilishly and dove for the most sensitive spot just below John's ear, before clicking off the camera and setting it behind him. 

Sherlock sat stiffly, realizing how he ached to kiss that spot on John's neck again. It had only been a day since he had seen John, who had gone out with some uni mates the night before (after Sherlock had left under the pretense of a quick errand, fairly certain John would be too inebriated by the time he got back to fully appraise the situation -- in retrospect now, another moronic thought to tack on to the Sherlock-fucked-up mental list), and he already felt bad, knowing that logically he had made a mistake. Again. Sherlock's newfound fragile emotional state (not actually newfound at all, simply uncovered from the wreckage of his thin glass armour, once erected before meeting the man who would mean more to him than cocaine and murder: the man who would show him why two hands slotting together was the most simply beautiful thing in all of creation) was taking its toll, distracting him from the job at hand. Scolding himself, finally, he ejected the flash drive, though not before smoothing his thumb over the edge and closing his eyes for 1..2..3..thirty seconds. One day, Sherlock would learn that his imagined form of safety for John was not worth the smaller man's wrath, but Sherlock's brain was still not John-shaped enough to calculate all emotional outcomes of a situation. 

Besides, John was cross, but patient, and Sherlock knew, _knew_ , John would love him until the end of time. Sherlock wasn't the type to engage in the act of cheating or senseless murder (and even if he did, John would most likely help him with the latter and hide the bodies, because, Sherlock thought, John's brain was Sherlock-shaped enough at this point -- a fact that caused a thoroughly disgusting feeling to settle in the pit of his chest, one which Sherlock did not want to ever address, because he is an idiot), so he was fairly certain the worst he could ever do was leave John.

That thought should have comforted Sherlock.

It had comforted him, before. 

But, on this day, all Sherlock had for comfort were the heartwarming words on the flash drive (on the file marked "Evidence B: You're An Idiot"), which were painfully hindered by the truth of the harsher words. Still, though he would never delete any of the things John had said, he pushed them to the back of his mind and clung to the _love, always_ , setting back to work so he could go home and have things thrown at him. 

And then everything would be alright. 

_Until the end of time._


End file.
